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Authors: Marie Bostwick

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BOOK: Fields Of Gold
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“Mama! Didn't you hear what I said?” he nearly wailed in despair. “The plane costs over a thousand dollars; there won't be enough for it
and
college.”
“Yes there will, if you're really serious about not wanting to farm. Are you absolutely sure?” I asked. He solemnly nodded his resolve. I took a deep breath and went on. “In that case we won't be needing nearly so much land. We'll sell that quarter I bought for you when you were little and one more next to it. That ought bring in enough to buy the plane with a little left over.”
For a moment, Morgan was dumbstruck. “Sell off part of the farm? Papaw's land? We can't do that. You've said yourself, a hundred times, that you'd die before you'd sell one acre of Papaw's land.”
“Well, that was before. I didn't have a good enough reason then.” Morgan began to protest again, but I quieted him before he could go on.
“Sweetheart, listen. Years ago when I saved up to buy you that land, it was for a reason. I wanted you to have a future. Back then I figured that meant farmland. Nothing else ever crossed my mind, but now I can see so much more ahead of you. I bought the land for you. Your grandpa and I kept the farm together for
you.
All we ever wanted was for you to be happy and live a life that would make us all proud, so if selling off a couple of pieces of property can make that happen, so be it.”
“But, you'd have fewer crops then, less money, and me not bringing in anything ...” he sputtered. “Mama, I want to help you, not be a burden to you.”
“I know you do, and it makes me proud to hear you say it. When the time comes, I'll let you, but for now I'm just fine. Morgan, I know I seem ancient to you, but I'm not even forty. My fingers are still pretty fast with a quilting needle, and I like doing it. Now that money's loosening up, I can go back to making the pretty quilts, the watercolor ones like I used to, and there will be people to buy them.”
Morgan looked at me curiously. “I've seen you cutting up all those little squares out of my old clothes, just like you used to, but is that what you are going to sell? Quilts made up of our worn-out shirts and pants?
“No,” I said, laughing. “Those little squares are for a special one, for a friend. But starting on that one quilt has kind of primed the pump, if you know what I mean.” I locked eyes with him so he'd know I was serious as I spun out my plan, trying to convince him that I was sincere in my desire to get back to work that meant something. As I talked I realized it was true. I couldn't wait to start creating again.
“I've got a dozen designs floating around in my brain, Morgan. I want to stitch them together with my own hands and wrap them around a complete stranger who thinks I must have read their thoughts and patched them whole. I can't wait to start, so you needn't sit there with that guilty look on your face. I've always managed. I don't see how not having a little bit of ground that barely produced anything in the past ten years is going to propel me into the poorhouse.”
“Still,” he said dubiously, “Papaw's land. I just wouldn't feel right about it.” Morgan's face looked so solemn and culpable that I couldn't help but laugh.
“They're just fields, Morgan, not holy ground!” He was unconvinced by my levity. Talking about selling off part of the farm was serious business to him, and he was right, I thought. It was more serious than he could imagine. “Morgan,” I said in what I hoped was an authoritative tone, “I know that right now you think there will always be time to backtrack and fix up the mistakes you made, or explore the paths you missed, but you're wrong. I want everything for you, the things I never had and the things I never had the courage to imagine having. That's what I want, and that's what your Papaw would want.”
A shy little smile started at the corner of Morgan's mouth and spread across his face. “Do you really think so?”
“I know it as sure as anything,” I said with finality and joy as I watched the relief flood my son's face and felt myself swept up into his grateful embrace.
And,
I thought to myself,
if your father were here, he'd want it too.
Thinking of Slim chilled me for a moment. It ought to be Slim having this conversation with Morgan, not me. Just this once, he ought to be here for his son. Why wasn't he?
That simple, silent question opened the door to a bigger one. Paul had been right; I should have asked it years before.
All the next week, whenever I could spare a moment, I sat in my room sewing the tiny squares I'd cut and collected from our cast-off clothes: mine, Morgan's, Mama's, Ruby's, and even some of Papa's old shirts I'd found wrapped in paper and stored in a chest. Years had passed since Papa worn them, but they still seemed to carry the faintest scent of him. I stitched them together with the rest, laying them out, rearranging the colors and patterns, sewing them and ripping them apart and sewing them together again, trying to piece all those separate scraps together into a whole cloth that would explain everything. A still life that was life, or at least a frozen moment of it. As I stitched and snipped and thought, Paul's voice played louder in my mind, until I wasn't afraid to hear it or think about what he'd said anymore.
Why isn't he here?
It was the first question. Once I allowed myself that one, the others weren't far behind.
 
Watching Morgan's valedictory speech was the proudest moment of my life. I sat wedged between Mama and Ruby. We applauded until our hands stung. We clapped when Morgan received his diploma, when he won the science award for designing a new windmill so light that it spun circles on just a breath of air, and again when he was announced as the “Graduate Most Likely To” and walked across the stage one more time to accept the $75 Grange scholarship.
It was one of the best days of my life. Even so, I kept finding myself glancing at the door of the musty gymnasium, waiting for Slim to walk through. Late, or in disguise, or without saying a word, I didn't care. I just wanted him to come for a moment, to see his son and what he had become and how what we had started together in ignorance and love had become, finally, a happy ending to share. But the door stayed closed.
After the ceremony Paul came over to shake Morgan's hand and congratulate all of us. Morgan asked him to join us for ice cream. Paul threw me a quick, questioning glance before saying he had an appointment. I didn't urge him to change it. We went for pie and ice cream at the café without him, and I told Morgan that my tears were only from happiness and pride. He believed me. It was so easy to make him believe the lie. Easier than it would have been to explain I was crying over closed doors.
The acreage sold quickly, and the plane was purchased and delivered to Liberal. Morgan began taking short flights under Whitey Henderson's direction. He wanted to take me up, too, but it was a two-seater. I'd have to wait until Morgan earned his license and could take up passengers alone.
“As soon as I can solo, Mama, I'm going to swoop down from the sky, land in one of the fields, and take you for a ride. I don't care if it's day or night or in the middle of exams. You're going to be my very first passenger,” he declared emphatically
“I'd be honored, Morgan, but if it is during your examinations, maybe you'd just better stay grounded until you finish. I'll be waiting right here when you're done.”
The weeks flew—flashed in front of my eyes like the blinding blast of a summer storm, a series of still photo-poems I collected in my mind: “This was the last time he ate my fried chicken, the last time he cranked the Ford, fed the stock, slept in his bed.” Then it was time to go. September came, and Morgan and Whitey stuffed the plane to bursting with Morgan's clothes and books. They flew off at dawn, a red streak of metal across the morning sky as I waved good-bye ... just like I'd waved good-bye to his father.
But this good-bye was different in that I understood exactly why I was staying behind, why the one I loved was going. Ever since Paul had dared me to ask the question, reasons for those partings, or at least the finality and persisting silence of them, had become less and less clear in my mind. I guess that's how everything starts. It's the unanswered questions that push us out the door and into the world.
Morgan didn't know what he could be, what lay round the bend or inside a cloud, and so he was off into the world to find out. I didn't know why, after so many years of silent compliance, I should still be waiting for the sound of an engine in the dusk, still waiting for him to walk into a room, shake Morgan's hand, and say, “We've met before, but it's time we got to know each other.”
I packed a bag, went to the train station, and bought a ticket to Des Moines, Iowa, where Slim was scheduled to speak. I wanted some answers. I wanted to stop waiting for the footsteps that never came.
Chapter 17
F
or some reason, my decision to go to Iowa cleared the clouds from Mama's mind and roused her to action. She seemed more herself than she had in years, industrious and commanding. The lunch basket she packed for my trip was an embarrassment. Big enough to carry a week's laundry, it was loaded with cold chicken, ham sandwiches, dried apples, cookies, cake, bread and butter, and an amber jar of cold, sweet tea. You'd have thought to look at me that I was taking the train all the way to the north pole instead of Iowa. Under all those provisions, on the very bottom of the hamper, was a flat, soft package. I'd wrapped it myself in three layers of brown paper to make sure the contents arrived in Des Moines undamaged.
Balancing the load on my lap, I felt self-conscious, figuring the other passengers must be wondering about the size of my appetite, but I knew that enormous lunch was Mama's way of saying, “I love you. I'm worried about you.”
I was worried myself, but a lifetime of carefully engineered avoidance of pain was exhausting. I was tired of being afraid. Mama knew that, so she came to the station and leaned on Ruby's arm, waving a tiny white handkerchief. It seemed I could see it through the dust and grime of the coach window, clean and fluttering like a flag of surrender, long after the silhouette of the station had faded in the distance.
After an hour or two I started to feel more at home with the rocking motion of the cars. The steady thunk of steel wheels against steel rail became familiar, even comforting, like the tuneless, constant song a mother hums to quiet a child.
The landscape changed quickly as we headed farther north. The dunes of sand that still nestled against buildings and fences got smaller and smaller until I realized that just a few hours away from Dillon there had been no dust bowl. If I'd stopped in that town and told the folks there that my papa had died from swallowing a small mountain of dust, or described storms of dirt so thick and black they blocked the sun and made noon seem like night, they would have looked at me with wide eyes, wondering if I was telling stories. In a way, I suppose they would have been right.
Looking around the coach at the other passengers, one eating an apple, another reading a newspaper folded in half, still another sleeping with head lolled back, breathing heavily through an open mouth, I realized they all had stories. We were all human, born of mothers, but beyond that there were so many differences among us that it was a wonder we recognized each other as the same species. Their lives were nothing like mine. Their Depression was theirs alone. Some were easier, some harder.
I had lived in Dillon all my life, surrounded by people I'd known since the day I was born. Yet it seemed I knew more about these strangers I was traveling with than the folks I knew by name. People in Dillon had become such a part of the landscape that I'd forgotten to notice what was special about them. It seemed odd that my fellow passengers seemed so much less guarded than my friends and neighbors. Maybe it was because when you're on a train, surrounded by people you know you'll never see again, you forget to keep up appearances, so you reveal more of yourself than you'd intended.
If I looked at the faces around me long enough, I could just make out, in the web of worry wrinkles and smile lines, the outlines of who they were, where they'd been, and how it had changed them. Not a single person was like the one sitting next to him, but I could see in their eyes, whether darting and suspicious or steady and stoic, the one thing they all had in common: they didn't know what was coming next or if they were up to handling it.
Even the bravest among them flashed expressions showing little seeds of doubt at unguarded moments, like stray thread ends I found in my quilts sometimes. I always shoved them back under the fabric so everything looked smooth and planned, but though the stitches looked perfect to others, I knew where every little thread was tucked, a hidden weakness that might unravel the entire seam. A whole train, a long, narrow world full of complete strangers seated side by side, a thousand different stories, and the only thing we really shared was uncertainty. It comforted me in a way I still can't explain.
I let my head drop back and slept like the others, not concerned about how I'd look if my jaw relaxed and dropped open onto my chest, or if people stared, wondering why my leg was so twisted, or if the woman sitting in the next seat could read my life in the lines near my eyes. Why shouldn't she? I was what I was. What could it hurt for people to know?
 
The hall was like the city, loud and smoke-filled, everybody talking and nobody listening, everybody knowing somebody, except me. I left my suitcase and basket at a hotel and carried only the package I'd wrapped to give to Slim when I found him. If I found him. The green velveteen dress was my very best, but compared to the tailored suits and cunning little hats I saw on the women sitting on folding chairs, murmuring and smoking cigarettes while waiting for the program to start, I felt like just what I was, a country girl come to town. I sat down on the far left of the auditorium, near two double doors where a group of serious-looking men in gray suits stood, visually assessing the crowd and talking to each other knowingly out of the sides of their mouths. They looked official and tense. I figured they were waiting to escort Slim and the others to the platform.
Eventually, the doors opened slightly, but Slim didn't enter. Instead a carefully dressed man with glasses and a receding hairline approached the microphone and announced that, as promised and in the interest of fairness, the America First Committee had decided to broadcast President Roosevelt's speech to the nation before beginning its own program. He thanked the audience for their attendance, and almost before he finished speaking, the warm, familiar, nasal voice of the president came over the loudspeaker, and the crowd grew quiet as they strained to hear the broadcast.
The president lashed out against the Nazis. He announced that he had given the navy permission to clear the sea of enemy warships whenever it was necessary to protect American interests. The crowd was supposed to be made up of isolationists, dedicated to keeping America out of the war, so I was surprised at how many times they cheered the president's words, especially when he verbally attacked Hitler as a despot. Apparently, the people of Des Moines were as torn between the desire for peace and the hatred of evil as the rest of the country. Between the reaction of the crowd and the president's announcement that the navy was authorized to attack “enemy” ships, before we'd even officially declared an enemy, I could see our entry into the war wasn't far off. There was no stopping it now.
When the address ended, the audience applauded warmly, then laughed and covered their ears when the loudspeaker squealed as the microphones were adjusted for the America First speakers. They'd set them too high for Slim, I could see that. He was tall, tall as anyone I knew, but the stagehand set the microphone so high he must have thought Slim was some fantastic giant of Nordic legend and not a man at all. I knew better.
The double doors burst open as the band struck up a patriotic tune. The committee came striding in, some grinning and pointing to people they recognized in the crowd, others looking nervous and pulling at tight collar buttons. Slim looked calm, serious, and resigned, like a doctor coming to give bad news to a terminally ill patient. He was so alone. Despite the questions that had driven me to be there, I couldn't help but feel compassion toward him.
For one ridiculous moment I thought that if I could push through the crowd somehow and reach him, I could tell him that war was inevitable and he should just thank everyone for coming and go home, before it was too late. The crowd that heard his words today might believe him for a moment, might even cheer him, but tomorrow they were going to war, and they'd forget. Once the declaration was made, all these people, everyone who'd been against fighting, would deny they'd ever said such a thing, and no one would remember if it was true or not, but Charles was too famous and his campaign too fervent for people to forget his words. They'd think he was a coward, a traitor to a just cause. I was afraid for him. What could be so worth hating as a hero made unheroic?
Flashbulbs exploded in his face, but he didn't look at the cameras. I leapt from my seat as he passed near me and tried to grab his sleeve, but one of the stern-looking men I'd seen guarding the door pushed me back. “Slim!” I called. He couldn't hear me above the din of the crowd and the band. I yelled once more, so loudly it made my ears ring. “Slim!”
He turned for a moment and searched the mob, trying to pinpoint the voice that must have sounded faintly familiar in his ears. When his eyes found me I saw recognition there, but nothing else. In fact, he seemed embarrassed and slightly annoyed, as though my appearance was an unwelcome development, designed to break his concentration. I knew then that nothing I could say to him would stop him from making his speech. He frowned at me and whispered something to the man in a pinstripe suit who was standing next to him. Frowning again, he shook his head at me in warning before continuing to the stage. He walked up the steps heavily, like a man ascending a gallows scaffold.
Though the whole thing had taken a second, it seemed longer, and all I could think was, “He's ashamed of me.” Ever since I'd decided to come to Des Moines, I'd imagined how his face would look when he saw me; I'd pictured many different reactions, possibly joy, anger, even denial. Somehow shame had never occurred to me.
Well, it should have,
I scolded myself.
It should have. What did you expect? You should have left things alone.
The room seemed even hotter and louder than before. I started to gather up my things and leave. I couldn't wait to get out of there.
But as I stood up, a hand reached out and gently pushed me back down into my chair. The man in the pinstripe suit laid his hand on my shoulder and spoke into my ear. “Stay right here until the speech is over and the crowd has left. I'll come back for you, but it may take a while. If anyone asks, you're waiting for me, Ben Hodges. You're my cousin Edith, and I promised to introduce you to Colonel Lindbergh. You understand?”
I nodded dumbly and murmured an awkward thanks, but I don't suppose he heard me. By then the crowd was up on its feet, applauding and hollering as Slim was introduced. Mr. Hodges glanced at me for a moment, sizing me up with a flat look, as though he knew all about me and considered me just another unpleasant piece of business to be dealt with in a world where nothing could surprise him anymore. I wondered what he knew about me.
Then Slim came up to the podium, and suddenly his face was the only one worth thinking about. He smiled automatically, as though he knew it was expected of him, and lowered the microphone so he could speak comfortably into it. For a moment he stood still, just to let everyone get a good look. The sight of him took my breath away. He was still so handsome. He stood tall, acknowledging the cheers of the crowd with good grace, not as if he deserved them or even as if he didn't, just accepting it all, the way other people say grace for the blessing of food they receive every day of their lives, grateful but not surprised, never imagining a day when the bounty will cease, because it has always been there. He was so sure of himself, so straight and open and earnest. I loved him all over again, despite the life I'd lived without him. How could I not love him? He was so much more alone than I'd ever been.
He began his address. In the shadow of a frown that creased his brow, I saw a tiny crack in the mask he covered himself with. He was afraid, too. I'd walked in on the pivotal scene. He'd already lost the battle for peace, peace for the country and for himself, and so this was the day he'd chosen to show them what he was, and dare these last loyal few to cheer him if they could. He already knew the outcome, so he was afraid. It was written on his face. If I could have, I would have stopped him, but I was what I had always been, a spectator. It was too late to choose another role.
His words, carefully rehearsed, rang out clear and sharp. The audience clapped and acclaimed his statements as though they'd written the text themselves. “England's position is desperate,” he boomed. “She cannot win the war by aviation regardless of how many planes we send her. Even if America enters the war, it is highly improbable that the Allied armies could invade Europe and overcome the might of the Axis forces.”
The assembly applauded again. Slim paused to let the noise die down before continuing. “If it were not for her hope that she can make the United States responsible for the war, financially as well as militarily, I believe England would have negotiated a peace in Europe many months ago, and be better off for doing so.”
More cheers followed that. Cries of, “That's right!” echoed in the hall. Nobody but me seemed to wonder why handing half of Europe over to the Nazis would leave England more secure than she was now.
If we were English,
I thought,
we'd fight to the death, even if winning was “highly improbable.” If he were English, Slim would be leading the battle cry.
I half wanted to whisper this into the ear of the woman sitting next to me but decided there was no point. Everyone in that room had already made up their minds what to think; they'd just come tonight to have their own opinions confirmed. The audience grew quiet again as Slim continued.
BOOK: Fields Of Gold
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